The Secret of Goldenrod

by Jane O'Reilly

  Her dad was instantly at her side, staring out the window with her. “It’s a truck,” he said. “Or two. Or three.” Stunned, they went out onto the front porch. Now it looked like an entire train of trucks and cars, and Mr. Hank’s truck was like the steam engine pulling them all toward Goldenrod. There were so many vehicles they couldn’t all park in the yard, so they lined up alongside the road—and then what seemed like the whole town spilled into the yard.

  Mr. Hank jumped down from his truck and walked right up to Trina’s dad. “One good deed deserves another, Mr. Mike, heh-heh,” he said, bouncing on his toes. He handed him a paintbrush and waved the crowd forward. “A little birdie told me you need some help out here.”

  “But I don’t have the paint yet,” Trina’s dad said.

  “Got it all in my truck, heh-heh,” Mr. Hank said.

  Trina watched her dad’s shocked expression slowly turn into the biggest grin she’d ever seen, except maybe when she played first base for the Santa Fe Vipers and caught that pop fly and threw it home for a double play. But whatever was happening at this moment felt even more magical to Trina than winning a softball tournament. Miss Dale was right. It was a really big surprise. But the biggest surprise was that the town could keep it a secret. No one had breathed a word to Trina or her dad.

  “She’s taped off and ready to go,” her dad said. Soon paint cans were popped open and ladders leaned up against all the sides of the house, and not just the front. Some people were standing on the ladders; others were standing on the ground. And everyone was painting with the prettiest buttery yellow paint imaginable. Without a doubt, Goldenrod would be all dressed up for the party by the end of the day.

  But that wasn’t all. More people were unloading their cars and trucks with furniture and household items and boxes full of stuff Trina couldn’t see. It was as if they were moving in. “Where does this go?” one man asked. He was carrying a coat tree taller than he was. “Um,” Trina’s dad said, completely overwhelmed.

  “In the foyer,” Trina said, taking over.

  “I’m Ben’s dad, by the way,” the man said on his way out as more people came through the open front doors. Trina sent people with boxes into the basement and up the stairs to the empty rooms, so the boxes could be unpacked later. Nearly a century’s worth of Dare Club goods, Trina figured. No wonder there was so much stuff.

  Miss Dale pushed through the crowd, her arm around Miss Lincoln’s shoulders. Trina was surprised to see both of them. What if Miss Lincoln had changed her mind and come for her? “Miss Dale, what are you doing here?” she asked warily.

  Miss Dale waved her bandage-free arm in the air. “I’m all better, so I took the day off to help.”

  “Only because Mrs. Harold agreed to take your class today,” Miss Lincoln said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Lincoln,” Miss Dale said. “That way I could deliver all the sandwiches and cookies Miss Kitty insisted on sending for the workers. And I brought some decorations we can work on.” Miss Dale gave Trina a knowing little wink and turned to Miss Lincoln. “It’s okay,” she said, patting Miss Lincoln on the back. “It’s okay, Miss Evelyn,” she said again, softly. “You just give it back. You won’t get in any trouble.”

  In a funny twist, Trina felt as if she were the principal and she had called Miss Lincoln into her office. “I didn’t take this,” Miss Lincoln said shyly, holding out a large teapot with a blue and white flowered pattern. She paused, looking at Miss Dale with desperation, and then she turned back to Trina nervously. “My brother did.”

  “But you took these, Aunt Evvie,” the teenager from Mr. Hank’s store said. He was coming up the steps behind Miss Lincoln with a box of matching teacups. Evvie! So she was the “Evvie” Miss Kitty had mentioned. Trina wondered if she would ever get over the shock: Miss Evelyn Lincoln, the prim and proper principal-secretary, was a member of the Dare Club.

  Miss Lincoln’s thin face blanched as white as the background of the china teapot. “This is Tyler, my great-nephew.”

  Trina smiled at Tyler, but her heart went out to Miss Lincoln. “Thank you, Miss Lincoln. Thank you for bringing it back. We can put the tea set in the dining room on the buffet. I think that’s exactly where it belongs.”

  “I’ll set up the food in the kitchen,” Miss Dale said as Trina led Miss Lincoln and Tyler into the dining room. Trina waited patiently as Tyler handed Miss Lincoln the teacups and saucers one at a time and Miss Lincoln arranged them in a perfect circle. Trina offered to show Tyler and Miss Lincoln around the house, but Miss Lincoln insisted on getting back to school immediately.

  As Tyler and Miss Lincoln went down the porch steps, two men came up, carrying a tall wooden cabinet with a crank and what looked like a big metal morning glory coming out of its top. “That’s an old wind-up record player,” Trina’s dad said, looking down from his perch on a ladder outside the turret. “For old-fashioned music,” he added, turning back to his painting.

  “Then put that in the parlor,” Trina said. “In the bay window.”

  “And records to go with it,” another man said, following the old phonograph with a big box in his arms. Trina peered into the box. The records were as big as dinner plates. “Remember me?” the man asked. Trina did. He was the man in the overalls who had thanked her after Annie’s funeral. She could tell he was glad for the chance to bring the stolen records back to Goldenrod—no questions asked.

  At the tail end of the parked cars, two more men were unloading the back of a big truck. As they walked up the drive, Trina recognized them as the workmen from Mr. Shegstad’s funeral home. Each of them was carrying a dining room chair tufted in blue velvet—just like the chairs in Augustine’s dollhouse. Not until they came through the gate did Trina spot Mr. Shegstad, who was nervously directing the men toward the house. “Be careful, now,” he said. “Don’t scratch anything.”

  As Trina propped open the front door with a piece of wood from the oak tree, Mr. Shegstad just about walked into her. He had a ghostly look on his face. “My father . . . we . . . very comfortable . . .” he stammered, and Trina figured she had the whole story. Mr. Shegstad didn’t take the chairs; his father did. And people at Shegstad’s Funeral Home had been sitting in the elegant velvet chairs from Goldenrod for decades and didn’t even know it.

  “They’re beautiful,” Trina said. “You must have had them redone.”

  Mr. Shegstad nodded, looking relieved now that he had unburdened himself. “My wife, my wife,” he said.

  The two men made five more trips to the truck before all twelve chairs were in the dining room. “Right here, right here,” Mr. Shegstad said, directing where each chair should go and adjusting the space between them so they fit perfectly around the huge table.

  The dining room was now fit for kings and queens. “Thank you, Mr. Shegstad,” Trina said. “We really appreciate it.”

  The house filled up with side tables and more chairs and rugs and lamps as Trina guided the furnishings to the most appropriate rooms. A big rolltop desk was placed in the library, along with a plant stand and dozens more books. Brass fireplace tools were set at the hearths, and a large portrait of Mr. Roy in his derby hat fit perfectly in the darkened outline above the library mantel. When two huge fancy beds arrived, Trina guided the guilty parties, carrying the beds piece by piece, to the master bedrooms, making sure no one went anywhere near Augustine and her dollhouse.

  Within a matter of minutes, the job was done. The crowd thinned, motors revved, and the dust floated down the road in the other direction. The only people left were the paint crew and Miss Dale.

  “What else can I help you with?” Miss Dale asked.

  Trina didn’t answer right away. She was too puzzled by an odd change she was noticing in the house. Filled with her belongings, Goldenrod didn’t echo anymore. She no longer sounded hollow and empty.

  “We could make the caramel apples,” Trina finally said. She took Miss Dale into the kitchen and showed her the bags of caramels sh
e bought at Millie’s Grocery Store and the carton of sticks she got from Mr. Hank’s hardware store—in the art department. “But first we have to bring in the apples and wash them.”

  Trina bribed her dad with one of Miss Kitty’s sandwiches and got him to carry the basket of apples into the kitchen, while Miss Dale emptied the caramels into the spaghetti pot. Then Trina rinsed the apples and Miss Dale dried them until Trina’s fingers started to shrivel in the water and they switched places. Some of the apples were saved for bobbing, but the rest of the apples they dipped in the melted caramel, which Miss Dale kept a close eye on so it wouldn’t burn. “See,” Miss Dale said, “I can cook more than my Aunt Kitty thinks.”

  Trina liked being alone with Miss Dale. It didn’t feel like being with a teacher, except Miss Dale was always teaching her something, it seemed, like setting the caramel apples on a piece of painter’s plastic instead of using up all the plates.

  “Did you make your wand yet?” Miss Dale asked as Trina set the last apple on the plastic tarp.

  Trina made a face, feeling as forgetful as her dad. “No, I forgot all about it.” She still had the wand and Augustine’s costume to make. “Maybe I can just use a stick from the old tree.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Miss Dale said. “I’ll be up late too, putting last-minute touches on your dad’s costume.”

  “Who’s he going to be?” Trina asked.

  With a gleam in her eye, Miss Dale shook her head. “I think it should be a surprise.”

  Ever since she pictured her dad as a big red tomato, Trina was dying to see him in his costume. But if the look on Miss Dale’s face was any indication, Trina had a feeling his costume was going to be something better than a big red tomato.

  “And now for the decorations,” Miss Dale said. “Follow me.” She climbed into Mr. Hank’s truck and brought out the box of tin cans from Miss Kitty’s diner. “We can make lanterns with these. I have a bunch of stubby candles we can stick inside them.”

  “And we can poke holes in the sides with a hammer and nails. I’m good with a hammer,” Trina said, quietly checking out her pale green thumb. “Pretty good, anyway.”

  They spent the rest of the afternoon making lanterns. Lanterns for the edge of the porch and lanterns to line the path from the gate to the steps.

  It was late afternoon when the paint crew started to clean up and the air filled with the smell of turpentine. Miss Dale shouted at Mr. Hank, “How long ’til we head back?”

  “Ten minutes, heh-heh,” Mr. Hank shouted back.

  Miss Dale nodded at Mr. Hank and turned back to Trina. “Citrine, do you think you could show me your dollhouse?” She said it shyly, the way Augustine asked about her prince.

  Trina said yes before she realized it was still light out and Augustine would be wide awake. What if she opened her bedroom door and caught Augustine cleaning her house? Or singing? How would she explain that to Miss Dale? But how could she say no to Miss Dale without explaining the situation? She had to take her chances. She led Miss Dale upstairs.

  “This is my room,” she said loudly when she arrived at her closed door. She opened her door just a crack and peeked her head in. Augustine was standing outside her dollhouse, dancing and humming in a ray of sunshine. “Oh, Miss Dale, I am so excited to show you the dollhouse,” Trina said, hoping Augustine would get the message. When Trina opened the door a little bit wider, Augustine dropped to the floor with barely a clink. She was lying there as stiff as a board by the time Miss Dale noticed her.

  “Oh,” was all Miss Dale said as she sank to her knees. She picked up Augustine as if she’d just gotten her for her birthday. She smoothed the doll’s hair and straightened her dress while holding her very, very gently. “It’s all so perfect,” she said. She touched the copper weather vane and the shingled roof and the brass doorknob on the front door. “Just perfect.” Miss Dale sat Augustine down at the dining room table and put a tiny fork in her hand. “I always wanted a dollhouse.”

  “Really?” Trina knelt down by Miss Dale. “So did my mom.” It felt safe to talk about her mother with Miss Dale.

  “How about you?” Miss Dale looked at Trina with her kind green eyes.

  Trina shook her head. “Not me. I like softball and fixing houses with my dad. But it’s been fun to work on this house by myself.” She didn’t mention that talking to Augustine was the best part.

  “That makes perfect sense,” Miss Dale said. “I can see you’re a lot like your father.”

  “Maybe,” Trina said. And maybe she was a lot like her mother too. And then, because she was so excited and the party was only a day away, she had to say it out loud. “I invited my mom to the party tomorrow.”

  Miss Dale opened and shut the cupboards in Augustine’s tiny kitchen. “Has it been a long time since you’ve seen your mother?”

  “Yup. Not since I was three,” Trina said.

  “I know what it’s like to have your mom live far away.” Miss Dale spoke very softly. “My dad died about ten years ago and my mom got remarried. She lives in Mason City. It’s only a few hours from here, but I don’t get to see her very often. She has a different life now.” Miss Dale brushed the bangs out of Trina’s eyes. “I hope your mother can come to the party.” She stood up to leave.

  “I’ll go downstairs with you,” Trina said. On her way out the door, she grabbed the bag of fabric scraps and Augustine’s little nightgown, which was hanging on the tiniest hook in her room. When she caught Augustine’s eye, the little doll flashed a huge smile just for Trina.

  By the time she and Miss Dale got downstairs, her dad was outside in the yard, waving good-bye to Mr. Hank as he pulled away in his truck. He stood for a moment, looking up at Goldenrod with the same awe that showed on his face the very first time he saw her.

  “What an amazing day,” he said as he came up the steps.

  “There have been a lot of amazing days lately,” Miss Dale said. And then she got an anxious look on her face. “Wait a minute. Hank was supposed to give me a ride home.”

  “I’ll take you,” Trina’s dad said.

  “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble? I can always call—”

  “No trouble at all,” he interrupted. “And then I’ll get the cider and pop for tomorrow too.” Trina couldn’t believe it. For once in his life her dad was planning ahead. “Do you want to come with us?” he asked her.

  “No thanks, Poppo. I have an important sewing project to finish.”

  “Okay. I’ll be home for dinner.”

  Trina said good-bye to Miss Dale and as the truck drove away from Goldenrod, she set up her sewing station at the dining room table. She got out a needle and thread and scrounged through the bag of scraps looking for the shimmery piece of blue fabric for Augustine’s costume, but when she came across the piece of lace, she couldn’t resist making the curtains first. She cut the lace into four long strips, rolled their edges, one by one, and hemmed them with tiny invisible stitches. Dollhouse curtains were so easy to make, she decided to make curtains for Augustine’s parents’ room too.

  Next she laid Augustine’s nightgown on the dining room table as a pattern. Measure twice, cut once, Miss Dale had said. She measured and measured again, allowing for a tiny seam. Then she cut the shimmery blue fabric, a front and a back, and stitched and hemmed as the afternoon slipped toward evening. Sewing was as magical as building the porch—making something out of nothing.

  In the middle of stitching the hem, a giddy feeling swept through Trina out of nowhere. It was as if someone had run up to her, whispered the most wonderful secret in her ear, and skipped away laughing. She couldn’t help responding. “I feel the same way, Goldenrod. Something very special is going to happen.”

  It wasn’t just the party, or that she was certain the whole town was coming. All that was special enough, but the feeling that Goldenrod had told her something extra-special was going to happen could mean only one thing: her mother was coming to the party. She just knew it.

  She
was nearly finished with the hem of Augustine’s party dress when her dad returned from his trip into town. He carried jug after jug of apple cider into the kitchen. “I got paper cups too,” he said in passing. On one of his trips from the kitchen to the truck he paused at Trina’s chair just as she tied a knot and broke the thread between her teeth.

  When she looked up, he reached into his shirt pocket. “This was in the P.O. box,” he said. He pulled out a small cream-colored envelope and placed it on the table in front of her.

  Trina set down her needle and searched the little envelope for a return address. It was on the back, printed on a gold label: Caroline Adams. Los Angeles, California.

  “Adams,” Trina said. “Is that her real name?”

  Her dad nodded. “It’s her maiden name. I looked her up on the Internet at the library and found out where she works.”

  Trina flipped the envelope over again and ran her finger along the beautiful script of her mother’s name, and then she looked up at her dad. “Poppo, did you . . . ?”

  He shook his head. “This one’s for real.”

  Trina’s whole body trembled with anticipation as she opened the envelope and pulled out a note card with an elegant, raised gold C on the front.

  Dear Citrine,

  Thank you for the invitation. What a coincidence. My crew is wrapping up a shoot in St. Louis, Missouri. If all goes as planned, I’ll swing through New Royal on the way home. Looking forward to it.

  Fondly, C.

  “Oh, Poppo,” Trina said, jumping from her chair and hopping in a little circle. “I knew it! I knew she’d come!” She didn’t even mind that her mother hadn’t said “Love, Mom,” like the postcards always did. What mattered was that she was coming to the party.

  Her dad read the card. “You mean she’ll try. St. Louis is a long way—”

  “No, Poppo,” Trina said as she felt a huge unstoppable grin spreading across her face. “She says she’s looking forward to it. She’s coming. I can feel it.” She knew Goldenrod could feel it too, had even told her about it, but she didn’t say that part.